


Where He Leads Me

by denythem



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Alcohol, Corny, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, absolutely cursed, clueless pov character, corn harvesting season, i worked on the playlist for this for 2 weeks, slightly ooc canon character, tes modern au, the cheydinhal sanctuary is hiding beneath a restaurant, yes it's terrible but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denythem/pseuds/denythem
Summary: A clueless freshly appointed Eliminator of the Dark Brotherhood is invited to dinner by his boss. Shenanigans ensue.





	Where He Leads Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hooooo boy this has been a RIDE. I'd like to say thanks to my beautiful mutuals on tumblr (especially miraakcultist, dunmer-dude, salriaah-draws and apsamaras), without whom I'd never find courage to actually finish and post this.  
> If I were to describe this...thing, I'd say that it's a display of next-level corniness. Non-violent, sappy corniness. If that's your thing, welcome! :^) Next stop Goblin City, baby!!  
> By the way, if you're unfamiliar with my work, hi!! I'm Daria. This is the first time i'm posting a fic. I'm more of a visuals kinda gal, so I barely write. I have a tumblr art blog where I obsess over oblivion and ramble sometimes. If you're interested in my fanart or maybe even OC art, check out my blog!! The url is denythem, just like on here. I recomend rummaging through the 'modern au' tag, if you happen to enjoy this mess of a fic.  
> Comments are encouraged, both here and on my blog! :^)  
> Anyway, grab yourself some popCORN if that's your thing and enjoy!!

_“Hello. Are you free tomorrow at 10?”_  
_“Yeah why”_  
_“I wanted to reserve a table at a restaurant I like in Cheydinhal and”_  
_“And?”_  
_“I was wondering if you'd like to join me.”_  
_“Sure just give me the address I'll be there”_  
Borgas stared at the screen of his phone, reading the messages they exchanged the day before. He entered the address in the GPS and noticed that the street was in the uptown. _It's fancy, then._  
Borgas let out a sigh and started the car, the engine making a pleasant rumbling sound. The salon smelled as if the silver convertible was just pulled from the conveyer; he bought it a few weeks ago, not believing for a second he was finally able to afford it. _If not for him and the jobs, I'd still be driving that wreck of a hatchback or riding the damn bus. Dinner at a snobby place won't kill me._  
The Cheydinhal weather was as favorable as it could get. It was late summer, and the nights were not as warm as they used to be a month ago, but the harsh winds that chilled to the bone had yet to come down from the mountains. Borgas pushed a button on the dashboard and the roof folded in the back in a few swift motions. He inhaled the fresh air and put his foot to the pedal.  
_“Make a hard left and continue forward for 400 meters.”_  
The streets were not as full as Borgas expected them to be on a weekend. He looked at the empty sidewalks and the countless shop windows and boutiques as he rode past. Most of them were already closed, save for a few middle-class ones with bland music blasting out of the doors. Borgas let out a disinterested yawn and focused on the road.  
His tracksuit jacket flapped against his chest as the wind whistled in his ears. Borgas glanced at the sweatpants and white sneakers he was wearing when he stopped at a red light and wondered if the place had a dress code. _They probably won't even let me in._ He gripped the wheel a little tighter.  
_“You have arrived at your destination.”_  
Borgas made a slight turn and parked the car near the sidewalk. He turned off the engine and looked at the sign on a two-story building in front of him. It was written in a beautiful font, the silver letters glimmering in the streetlight. Borgas tried to read it in his head, but then realized it was in Breton. _It's definitely fancy. _He shook his head, grabbed his phone and wallet from the front seat and left the car.__  
“Good evening, Borgas.”  
Lucien Lachance called out, leaning on his own car a few meters away from Borgas.  
“Hey,” Borgas walked up to him, his leather sneakers making annoying squeaky noises.  
As they shook hands, Borgas took a second to look at the man standing in front of him. He wore a black suit with a crisp shirt just as dark and no tie, with the top buttons of the shirt left unbuttoned, exposing the collarbone. His hair was as always slicked back, not a single strand left on the forehead or near the greying temples. The spotless shoes reflected the yellow light. _The suit alone probably costs more than my entire wardrobe._ Borgas wished he could excuse himself and run to the nearest boutique to grab the first suit and pants he saw.  
It was too late to do that, however, so he looked down at the pavement, trying to find the words, which could excuse his outfit. Borgas thought about how he could look up the restaurant earlier and at least put on a white shirt and a pair of black jeans.  
The agonizing few moments he spent in silence ended when Lucien spoke.  
“I think I'd forgotten to mention that there is a dress code. Don't worry though, I know the owner and go here quite often, I think they can forgive us once.”  
_They might forgive you, but that doesn't mean they're not going to look at me with a wrinkled nose._  
Borgas had dreamed of the day he could have a wallet fat enough to simply walk in the snobbiest restaurant in town, grab a seat and behave himself as if he owned the place. When he was finally able to do that, however, he still had breakfast, lunch and dinner at the nearest and cheapest joint he could find. He felt awkward near the people who could tell the difference between expensive wines and steaks and all those things he could not afford just a few months ago. As they walked towards the restaurant with a name he could not for the life of him pronounce, Borgas thought about how the menu had to be completely incomprehensible as well.  
The glass doors opened in front of them silently, and they found themselves in a beautifully decorated hallway with a reception desk towards the end. The woman at the desk seemed to have recognized Lucien and put on her brightest smile as they greeted each other. She quickly looked behind his shoulder to see whom he brought with him. Borgas could see her brow furrow for a brief moment.  
“Of course, sir. Let me show you to the table.”  
Her voice was sweeter than syrup when she turned right and opened the door to the dining area.  
It was much grander than the reception, which seemed almost pedestrian compared to the high ceiling decorated with an intricate pattern and a large chandelier, its lights dimmed down. The walls were a shade of dark brown and paintings with gilded frames made the place look like a museum. It felt like it, too. _Big, fancy and half-dead._ There were very few tables occupied, and most of them housed only one person, the other chair left empty. A grand piano stood in the very center of the room on a circle podium. The pianist leisurely played something that sounded somewhat familiar, yet Borgas could not make out the name of the tune.  
As they walked past the tables, lit by three-headed candlesticks, he felt eyes following him. _Look all you want, none of you can bother me._ Some threw a quick glance and turned their attention back to the plate in front of them, and others seemed to have lost the grasp on good manners and simply stared. Borgas repeated the simple mantra he made up in his head until they reached their table. _None of you can bother me, you smug assholes._  
“Here you are, sir. Our best table, just as you ordered.”  
This was probably the most believable thing the receptionist had said so far. The table stood right by an arched window, from which a small garden could be seen. An ivy-covered fountain was surrounded by lush rose bushes, which moved lazily in the breeze. The water splashing in the fountain glistened under the streetlights. Mesmerized by the view, Borgas almost failed to notice Lucien offering him a seat.  
“Oh, thanks,” Borgas finally sat himself at the table and the receptionist, thankfully, left them alone.  
“The waiter will bring our menus shortly,” Lucien said, taking a moment to look out of the window. He took a white napkin from the table and spread it on his lap.  
“So...This is your favorite place, huh?” Borgas asked awkwardly, taking his own napkin. He noticed a beautifully embroidered logo on the corner: some sort of bird, sitting on a branch.  
“I suppose you could say so, yes. Besides, of course, my own establishment,” Lucien said, wearing one of his signature grins. Does he ever smile without looking like a super villain?  
The “establishment” that he was talking about sat above the Sanctuary and served as a tool to hide what lay beneath the bar, the kitchen and the tables. Borgas never actually visited it, but from what he once read on a feedback website, the place was thriving.  
“Cool. I’ve never been to a restaurant like this. It’s very...:” Borgas hesitated, looking for an appropriate adjective.  
“Sophisticated?” Lucien offered with a sly smile.  
“Yeah. I meant to say fancy, but you worded it better,” Borgas said, looking down.  
Just when the conversation was about to go as stale as physically possible, the waiter approached the table, carrying two menus.  
They thanked the waiter and Borgas opened the menu laid in front of him. The cover was a deep shade of crimson, and in the center, the same logo that he saw on the napkin was printed in reflective gold. Beneath it, the name of the restaurant was written in italics. _This time, I’m going to read it. No matter how stupid I might sound._  
“Le...le pe-...How do I read this?” Borgas gave up, staring at the text with the most baffled look on his face.  
Lucien threw a quick glance at his own menu.  
_“Le petit oiseau,”_ Lucien read aloud, his Breton graceful and precise. “The little bird.”  
“I didn’t know you speak Breton,” Borgas noted. _Of course he does. What else does he do? Play the organ in his castle on the hill?_  
“Well, there are a lot of things you don’t yet know about me.” Lucien spoke as he looked through the first page of the menu.  
He wasn’t incorrect. Borgas knew almost _nothing _about his boss besides the fact that Lucien’s job as a restaurateur was not his _main source of income _. Their text messages always focused on work, and they barely talked in person. _I never told him anything about myself either, now that I think about it._____  
“Have you decided on your order?” Lucien asked, lifting his gaze from the menu. “I myself can’t choose between the foie gras and the risotto…”  
As soon as Lucien turned his attention back to the menu, Borgas pursed his lips so hard he felt blood rushing out of them. _What is the easiest way to inconspicuously get my phone and look up whatever the hell he just said?_  
“Not yet, give me a second.”  
He hastily opened the menu and looked through the main course dishes. Just as he expected, most of the things he read did not make much sense. Sometimes he would see something familiar, something that actually sounded edible. _That’s chicken, but what if he thinks I’m playing it safe? That right there is venison, but was it necessary to make it sound like it came from outer space?_  
Borgas’s torment was over when Lucien seemed to have noticed him struggling.  
“I suggest having the langoustine. The broth it’s served with is to die for.”  
Borgas was not sure what sent a bigger shiver up his spine: the way Lucien said the last few words, or the fact that he had no idea what a _langoustine_ was and how he might later embarrass himself.  
“Alright, I’ll go with that,” Borgas agreed, making sure he sounded as confident as possible.  
Lucien nodded and picked up the wine card, his eyes moving from line to line, as he looked through the ridiculously expensive cabernets and pinot grigios.  
“A _sauvignon blanc_ would work beautifully, don’t you think?” Lucien asked, seemingly full of enthusiasm.  
Borgas blinked. He could tell the difference between a white and a red, and knew better than mixing vodka with beer, but the vast world of wines and types of grapes they were made of eluded him.  
In the end, all he could respond with was a tiny nod and a nervous smile.  
When Lucien waved to the waiter, they made their orders and he came back shortly with a bottle and two tall glasses. He made sure to open the damn thing theatrically, as if it was not mere _grape juice with alcohol_ , but god’s nectar. Yet, he was thankful for the liquid courage poured into his glass and as soon as the waiter was gone, Borgas grabbed it and took a big sip. When he put the glass down, he saw Lucien twisting a paper napkin so violently he nearly tore it to pieces. At the same time he had the most nonchalant expression on his face, his eyes not focused on anything in particular.  
A few minutes passed before Borgas decided to break the silence.  
“This is good,” Borgas said, feeling the alcohol spreading through his veins. “Try it.”  
Lucien got rid of the napkin, all twisted and wrinkled, and put his lips to the glass. When he put it down, it was almost empty.  
“This is actually one of my favorites,” Lucien confessed, his hand reaching for a new napkin. As soon as Borgas looked at him, confused, he pulled away.  
They spent the next thirty minutes or so talking inertly, making pauses to think of something remotely engaging to say. Borgas tried as hard as he could not to finish the entire bottle in one sitting, and Lucien avoided his gaze.  
Borgas took another sip. “So, why did you invite me here?”  
Lucien blinked, taken aback by the question. When he was about to say something, the waiter came up to them, holding a silver tray with two plates. After he put them on the table, Lucien asked for a second bottle. Good, we’re going to need it.  
“Bon appetite,” Borgas said, hoping he did not sound completely plebeian.  
_“Bon appetit,”_ Lucien mirrored with a hint of a smile on his face as he looked at him.  
“How’s my Breton?” Borgas asked a bit drowsily, the wine hitting him harder with every passing second.  
Lucien looked at him again, his eyes lighting up a little. “Surprisingly passable.” he said, grinning wickedly. Borgas’s attempt at speaking Breton seemed to have amused him.  
The excruciatingly awkward moments seemed to have finally passed, and Borgas was grateful for that much. Now, to the food.  
What he saw in his plate did not look thoroughly impressive. A rather modest piece of lobster _(langoustine’s just a fancy word for lobster, then)_ was swimming in a pool of broth, and some sort of plant was carefully placed on top of the meat for decoration. Very generous. At least the broth had a beautiful smell to it, and Borgas felt his stomach rumble. He picked up the spoon and tasted the broth first.  
_Bland. It tastes bland. How does something smell so good and taste like cardboard?_ Borgas scooped up the lobster and tried it as well, hoping in the back of his mind that it would have at least some sort of taste.  
A sudden wave of all sorts of flavors hit at the same time, almost making Borgas grimace. _All right, now this is flavor overload._ First, he tasted pumpkin, then a hint of garlic and something repulsively sweet. Only when he chewed it he finally caught a wisp of lobster, and just as soon as he tasted it, it was gone.  
Borgas put the spoon down, disappointed, and threw a quick glance at Lucien. _At least he’s having a good dining experience._ With every spoonful of risotto _(ah, fancy rice) _Lucien enjoyed it more, taking the time to taste it properly. He took a sip of wine as well. Borgas mirrored the last gesture, and emptied the glass. _By the time we’re done here, he’s going to have to carry me to the cab.___  
He filled his glass, accidently hitting it with the neck of the bottle. A sudden _clank_ made Lucien lift his gaze from the plate, back to reality.  
“Borgas?” Lucien called, with an unfamiliar tone in his voice.  
“Hm?” Borgas hummed, looking down at the plate and stirring the broth idly with the spoon. Occasionally it struck the walls of the plate and made an irritating sound but he hardly noticed.  
“Is everything alright?” Lucien asked, leaning in slightly. “You seem a bit...Upset.”  
Borgas kept his eyes peeled on the plate. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Had a long day, that’s all.”  
The answer did not seem to have satisfied Lucien. He completely abandoned the risotto and put his hands together on the table.  
“Truly?” He persisted. “If there is something…”  
Borgas gave up staring at the plate and finally lifted his gaze to meet Lucien’s. He had an odd look on his face; it almost seemed as if the man was concerned.  
Everything felt so _suffocating_ : the snobby idiots, the receptionist with her flattery, the music that tortured his ears with its lack of any rhythm, and above all, the poor excuse of a dinner on his plate. Borgas lifted the glass and took another sip. _Screw it, I’m telling him._  
“I’m sorry, but I don’t like it.” Borgas confessed, looking down like a child who got ketchup all over his shirt. He mentally prepared himself for whatever Lucien was about to say. Wouldn’t it be cute if I got fired at dinner?  
Although Borgas couldn’t see it, he knew Lucien was looking at him. For a few torturously long moments he did not speak.  
“That’s fine; we could get you something else. Venison, perhaps? Or pigeon?” Lucien suggested in a surprisingly mild tone.  
He did not seem too upset, which made Borgas regret opening his mouth a little less. _And now I’m about to open it again and ruin my career. ___  
“No, I don’t like it here. The food and everything is just-...It's not for me, man. I’m sorry.”  
He could have stayed quiet. He could have ate the damned langoustine without saying a word. He could have said goodbye right after, gotten a cab to a hotel and ordered an ungodly greasy pizza and went to sleep after finishing it in one sitting. Instead, he had too much of the wine, which always made him talk too much.  
Borgas shifted in his seat. _Please, say something._  
“Forgive me. I should have asked your opinion first. Perhaps you could suggest some place better? A place you like?”  
_What was that now?_ Borgas’s eyes widened as he rapidly lifted his head. It protested, giving a particularly violent spin. Lucien was looking at him, patiently waiting for his response.  
Borgas rubbed his chin. He was not as familiar with Cheydinhal as much as he was with the capital or Bruma, but occasionally he stopped at a nice enough cafe when he was in town. Conveniently, it was not far from where they were at the moment.  
“Actually, I do,” he said, reaching for his phone. “It’s not too far from here, let me check.”  
Borgas opened a map on his phone to see if he was correct. The cafe was indeed nearby, just down the street, sitting near an alley.  
“Yep, it’s close. We could just walk there. But…” Borgas hesitated.  
“But?” Lucien raised his eyebrows, the lines on his forehead deepening.  
“It’s just a burger joint,” Borgas continued. “Not as grand as all _this_.” he waved his hand around to illustrate his point. _Here I go, waving my limbs. How many glasses did I have in the end?_  
Lucien did not look offended in the slightest. “So? I don’t mind, as long as you think it’s good.”  
Borgas could not help but let out a sigh of relief. Lucien had another spoon or two of his risotto and, with a look someone would give to a departing loved one on a train station, put it down. He gestured for the waiter to come up to their table and when he did, Lucien asked for the receipt. Thinking of how much his cardboard lobster and Lucien’s fancy rice actually cost, Borgas reached into his pockets to look for his wallet. When the waiter handed Lucien the receipt, Borgas asked to see it.  
“What do you need it for?” Lucien inquired, taking the pen, which was in the receipt book.  
“We’re splitting the bill, so I need to see how much it is,” Borgas said.  
Lucien smiled one of his smiles and shook his head. “Oh, we’re not doing that. I’ll pay.”  
Borgas blinked. “You sure? It’s got to be a lot…”  
Lucien did nothing but lift his hand, pleading for silence. “I assume you will repay me with better food.”  
Borgas chuckled and excused himself. He passed the tables and the receptionist at her desk, who probably gave him a sour look for one last time. _So long, assholes._  
As the doors opened before him, the fresh night air hit his nostrils. He inhaled greedily and with a feeling of great relief, as if the restaurant was indeed lacking oxygen, effectively sucking the air out of his lungs. Even though it got a bit colder, Borgas did not bother zipping up his jacket and simply stood there, looking at the sky. _It's always so bleak in the city. Not a single star in sight._  
“Where to?” Lucien’s voice called out. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, without making a noise. _As always._  
Borgas looked around and pointed at a building nearby. “We cross the road there and then just go down the street.”  
He felt the wine doing its work. Even more so than when the glass was still in his hand. Borgas recognized a warmth in his chest and a faint dizziness, but the good kind. The kind that would perhaps make you forget a few things the day after, yet not present you with a terrible hangover, rendering you useless for the next few hours. Lucien walked a few steps behind him.  
Sometimes they exchanged a few words as they strolled, passing countless dimly lit storefronts. The last stores closed down while they were dining, so even the ones that had music booming out of their doors were finally silent. It was incredibly quiet, save for a few cars going in different directions. Borgas could even make out the electric buzz of the streetlights. If he were to close his eyes, he could picture his small town, which went to sleep every day at ten in the night, even during the weekend. _It’s so nice outside, yet no one's around to enjoy the night._  
Borgas was growing impatient when he finally spotted a neon sign a few meters away from him: a glowing burger with a can of soda. _And a name I can actually pronounce._  
“Here we are,” Borgas announced. _“Easy Cheesy.”_  
Lucien almost let out a snort but managed to keep his dignity by covering his mouth. “Well then, let's see what this fine establishment has to offer.”  
It was a tiny cafe, squeezed into the first floor of a historical building. There were a couple of booths by the windows and some bar stools near the entrance. Most of them were occupied. Some of them housed couples, enjoying a late night date, the others-drunken groups of friends, talking so boomingly that Borgas could not make out a single word from their conversations.  
Borgas went straight for the counter and made it there in a couple thunderous broad steps. A friendly but somewhat exhausted looking cashier greeted him. Lucien sat himself on one of the few remaining bar stools near the entrance, stretching out one of his long legs.  
“What would you like?” Borgas asked when he was done making his order.  
He couldn’t resist a giggle when he looked at Lucien. He seemed to be awfully out of place with his neat black suit, lacquered leather shoes and a sophisticated perfume, which was inevitably muted by the smell of fast food.  
Lucien looked at the displays above the counter. “I'm not familiar with the menu, so it's best that you order what you think is nice.”  
Borgas shrugged and turned to the cashier. He ordered something similar to his just to be safe. Borgas took the receipt the cashier gave him and leaned on the bar counter next to Lucien, who was still sitting on the stool. If Borgas were to be perfectly honest, he had to lean on something; otherwise, he would probably stumble and make a fool of himself. _Half a bottle of wine, and I’m already a mess._  
“Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as hell,” Borgas said, as he looked at the displays above the counter, the ads highlighting the food in all its over-saturated glory.  
Lucien considered it for a moment and agreed. “Me too. I usually have dessert after the main course…”  
“And I didn’t give you the time to have it. Sorry for that, boss,” Borgas gave Lucien a pat on the back. He might have overdone it, though: Lucien jerked forward under Borgas’s heavy hand. “I got you a milkshake instead. I didn’t know which flavor’s your favorite, so I went with chocolate.”  
“Chocolate will do just fine, thank you,” Lucien said.  
“My favorite is strawberry,” Borgas confessed. “But which one do you like best?” Borgas pointed his finger at Lucien. The finger almost ended up landing on Lucien’s clavicle. _I’m never drinking again._  
“I haven’t had one in years,” Lucien replied. “I’m not even sure anymore…”  
The cashier called Borgas’s name. “Oh, look, it’s ready,” he noted excitedly and left to pick up the order.  
He grabbed the two paper bags and tall cups and put them on the counter right in front of Lucien. Borgas considered his cup of strawberry milkshake and gave in, taking a few sips. “Gotta love that sugar,” he confessed. “Come on, give yours a try or it’s gonna melt.”  
Lucien, who looked just as out of place as before, blinked and moved his cup closer. He looked at it without any particular interest and put it away again. “Maybe we should find a seat first?” he suggested, looking around. A few people left during the time they were waiting for their order: one booth was completely unoccupied.  
Borgas did the same but returned his gaze back to Lucien. _What’s our damn problem? I was miserable back there, he’s miserable here. Is there any way to save this mess of a...A friendly get-together?_  
Borgas rubbed the back of his neck. _Think, think. I’m not letting this go._  
Suddenly it came to him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket so fast it almost fell to the floor. Lucien’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.  
“I’m getting a cab,” Borgas announced as he opened the app, typing in the address.  
“Are you leaving?” Lucien asked as Borgas looked up from the phone screen. His eyes met Lucien’s as he half rose from the bar stool. He sounds... _Worried?_  
“Huh? No, of course not. _We’re_ going somewhere else,” Borgas elaborated. “Don’t worry; it’s not another fast food place.”  
Lucien stood up and straightened up his suit jacket. _Please don’t be upset, please don’t be upset…_  
“Where are we going, then?” he asked, looking relieved as he picked up the bags from the counter.  
_Weird how the guys from the Sanctuary told me he’s a tough boss. Here I am, being a spoiled little shit, and he agrees to everything._  
“I’m not telling you yet,” Borgas winked, taking another sip of the milkshake. “I hope you’ll like it, though.”  
Lucien had a hint of a smile on his lips, probably because Borgas failed to actually wink; instead, his left eye blinked, and the other did the same a moment later. “I’m sure I will,” he replied.  
When the car pulled up to the sidewalk, Borgas sat in the backseat. Lucien joined him, and the salon quickly filled with the smell of his cologne. It was a pleasant smell, Borgas had to admit: something familiar, maybe even like your average aftershave, but it had a twist to it. A twist that probably made it cost like a nice phone.  
As they rode past the half-empty streets, Borgas rolled the window down to let in some night air. The breeze went through his hair and rustled lightly in his ears. He closed his eyes to give them a rest from the streetlights flashing rapidly as they rode past and leaned back.  
“Still…” Lucien began. His voice sounded closer than before. “Where are we going?”  
Borgas opened his eyes and pulled a smug half-smile. “I’m not taking you to an abandoned building to murder you, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
A moment after silence fell between them, they shared a rather sinister laugh. _Now that poor guy behind the wheel is probably scared shitless._  
The drive lasted no more than ten minutes. As soon as they left the car, its tires screeched hysterically as the driver pushed the pedal to the floor and drove away, all in a matter of a few seconds.  
They stood in front of a tall archway that drowned in crimson vines, the sign at the top of it reading “The Cheydinhal Gardens”. Borgas only visited the park briefly once, but he could recall the centuries-old weeping willows and tiny ponds filled with sparkling white water lilies. Even though autumn was approaching, he hoped to find the same beauty he did back then.  
“Thought we needed to get away from the city,” Borgas explained. “Let ourselves breathe for once.”  
Lucien’s chest rose as he inhaled the air, which carried a lingering scent of flowers that remained, despite the temperatures dropping steadily each day.  
Borgas put on a big smile and waved his hand. “Come on; let’s go find a bench or something.”  
The wine refused to let Borgas be. As he was going up a hill, his feet dragged slightly against the pavement. He laughed to himself and wondered if Lucien struggled with such a mundane task right now as much as he did. _Probably not._ Borgas put one hand in his pocket and discovered a half-finished pack of gum, the same mint flavor he always bought. He picked up the habit so he could get rid of another one and it stuck. Borgas put one in his mouth and blew a bubble. It was large enough to cover the entire lower half of his face. After it was gone with a _pop _, Borgas looked behind to see Lucien walking a few steps behind.__  
_He seemed to have cheered up_ , Borgas thought with relief. _At least I’m doing something right for once._  
The hill turned out to be higher than he expected. It felt like he had been walking for ages, yet the top of it was still out of sight. He walked past countless centuries-old willows and several benches, ignoring every single one of them.  
“Are the ones we passed not good enough?” Lucien asked with a light sarcastic tone in his voice.  
“Exactly,” Borgas confirmed without turning to face him. “I want a view,” he stated. Borgas heard Lucien chuckle and chuckled back.  
For the first time since they arrived they saw a passerby-a young woman fully immersed in her phone, with a ridiculously large pit-bull at her side, its short tail wagging at an incredible pace. As Borgas walked past the dog, he could not help but smile and mouth something between the lines _“Good boy”_ and _“Look at him go”_. It took him all his willpower not to reach out and try to pet it.  
“I want one so bad,” Borgas confessed when the woman and her pit-bull were out of sight. “I can’t really commit to it, though, so that’s not happening any time soon.”  
Lucien finally decided to catch up to him. “I remember Ocheeva begging me for a bulldog,” he recalled. “She was no more than five back then. I had to tell her no, since I barely stayed home and couldn’t take care of it.”  
Borgas blinked in surprise as he looked at Lucien, whose eyes were fixated on the ground as if something particularly exciting was down there. He expected anything but a nostalgic revelation, especially from someone like his boss. _Someone like him? What's that mean anyway?_ Borgas kicked the gravel beneath his feet as he walked, the tiny stones spraying everywhere. _Mysterious? Secretive? Peculiar? All of the above multiplied by ten. That can’t be all, though._  
“I’ll make sure to tease her about it,” Borgas replied with a toothy grin.  
Lucien smiled and somehow it felt good to see him like this. Actually smiling, relaxed, laid back. He looked as if he left a weight he had been carrying around for a while back at that restaurant, together with the risotto and the langoustine. Or perhaps in the cab, where the driver probably sweated his soul away as two weirdoes were laughing like cliché villains in the backseat. Either way, it felt surprisingly refreshing.  
“Oh, we almost made it,” Borgas announced as the top of the hill was finally in sight. “Come on.”  
Borgas intended to make a few drunken steps and sit himself on the closest bench, but he took Lucien’s hand instead. He could swear his brain shut off for the few seconds it took him to do that. Lucien looked up right in his eyes, completely puzzled to say the least, and yet he didn’t seem to mind. As Lucien’s hand was in his, he felt the warmth radiating off it. It was feverishly hot, and Borgas could not understand why. _It’s chillier here than in the city._  
He refused to let go and led Lucien to the top of the hill in search of a perfectly placed bench. He glanced around and spotted one, standing all alone near yet another willow and a couple of lush bursts of leaves on the bushes. “There,” he pointed. “That’s the one.”  
Borgas let Lucien’s hand go and instantly felt a breeze on his own. _Mine are always cold,_ he thought.  
“Seems like all this walking was worth it after all,” Lucien noted, sitting down.  
A view of the entirety of Cheydinhal greeted them. The uptown with its streetlights and ads playing on buildings, images flashing at an impossibly to comprehend speed, the smaller residential areas which were mere dots from such a distance, and a few roads, golden from the countless lights with a few green and red flickers, like sophisticated glimmering necklaces, snaking from the heart of the city.  
“Yeah, it’s nice,” Borgas admitted, sitting down next to Lucien and taking another big sip of his milkshake.  
“Nice...” Lucien echoed. He opened his mouth to continue, only to close it shortly after.  
“So.”  
“So?”  
“I asked you before, but you didn’t answer.” Borgas said, digging in the contents of his paper bag in search of a box of fries. “Why’d you take me out for dinner?”  
Either it was the sound of him rummaging through the poor bag too fiercely, or Lucien coughed; Borgas was not completely sure.  
“Well,” Lucien began slowly, “Am I not allowed to invite my employees to a nice restaurant?”  
“Of course you are,” Borgas reassured him as he took some fries out of the box. “That’s not what I’m asking. What’s the occasion?”  
It was fascinating to see Lucien visibly struggle to find the right words. Usually, it was Borgas who needed some time to construct a comprehensible sentence. He ate a handful of fries like it was popcorn and he had the best seat in a movie theatre.  
“You took care of all the contracts you’ve been given so far with the level of efficiency none of us have seen before,” he finally managed. “I wanted to...Express my appreciation of your skill.”  
“Fine,” Borgas gave up. “That’ll do.”  
He kicked the gravel beneath his feet again. “Thanks, by the way. I really needed a break from what’s been going on.”  
“From that other job of yours?” Lucien smiled and rested his elbows on his knees.  
“Exactly.” Borgas smiled back. “I wish I could tell you, but....”  
In truth, he could not talk about it with anyone. If he did, it would certainly put in danger not only him, but also everyone else. Baurus, Jauffre, and Martin. A large enough target was painted on their backs already. _Martin. Especially Martin._  
“Everyone has their secrets,” Lucien shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind knowing more about _you,_ however.”  
“Me? What about me? ”Borgas blinked and Lucien gave him a look that he would probably give to someone who failed to solve two plus two. “Oh, me. Right.”  
He turned to Lucien and playfully pointed a finger at him. “I’m not doing this alone, though. Let’s do it this way-I tell you something about me, and then you tell me something about yourself.”  
“A game? How exciting,” he smirked. “Fine. Let’s start with you.”  
Borgas chewed a fry and tried to think of something mildly interesting about himself. “Fun fact-I attended tailoring classes for a few years. I actually excelled at it.”  
That seemed to have surprised Lucien. “Impressive. I now know whom to trust with my suits.”  
“That’ll cost you, boss,” Borgas laughed and rubbed his index finger and thumb together. He ended up receiving a jesting punch to his forearm and laughed even louder. “ _Ow._ Your turn.”  
“Let’s see…” Lucien put a finger on his lips as he observed the city skyline. “Lachance isn't my real last name,” he said after an exaggeratedly dramatic pause.  
Borgas rolled his eyes so intensely his head started throbbing. “Really?”  
“Okay, that was a bit obvious,” Lucien admitted, lifting his hands. “Well…I just wanted to say that I’m glad we took this little detour. I haven’t done anything like this in a while, and... ”  
He paused, toying with the ring on his index finger. Borgas simply sat there, silent, forgetful of the box of fries in his hand, which were quickly growing cold.  
“I would like to do this again sometime.”  
“Yeah!” Borgas exclaimed which sent Lucien’s brow upward. “We could rent a huge house and invite everyone from the Sanctuary, Ocheeva and Teinaava too, of course…”  
“Borgas, that's not what I meant.” he said very carefully, as if he was treading through a minefield.  
Borgas tilted his head to the left, slightly confused.  
“I only want you...To have dinner with. Or, forget dinner, we could go to a wine tasting party at Surillie’s, they gave me an invitation for two. I also could get us access to a club in the Imperial city; they only let the Black Hand and its associates in… Or maybe we should take my car instead, and drive anywhere, it doesn’t really matter…”  
Borgas’s mouth was hanging open. He often found himself in situations where he had no clue what to say, and this was definitely one of them.  
“I…” He began.  
“Anywhere, Borgas,” Lucien said, his voice quiet.  
His hand trailed and touched Borgas’s thigh ever so slightly. Lucien’s face was close enough for Borgas to see his eyes clearly, black as the night sky, the reflections bright as the stars. Borgas licked his lips nervously. It seemed as though every sound had died out, since all he could hear was his own breathing. There was nothing but them for miles around.  
“Is this okay?” Lucien asked.  
“Yeah,” Borgas whispered.  
Lucien leaned in and their lips touched. As they kissed, the taste of wine was thick and prominent, sweet and wonderful. With Lucien’s hand resting in Borgas’s, he felt the now familiar heat. _Mine are always cold._  
“Anywhere,” Lucien kept saying breathlessly into Borgas’s neck. _“Anywhere.”_


End file.
